


I hate the way I don't hate you

by Magali_Dragon



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, BAMF Olenna Tyrell, F/M, Fluff I guess, Jon Snow is Lord Commander of the Night's Watch, Jonerys Kink Fest, No Plot/Plotless, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Queen Daenerys Targaryen, Smut, What happens when book!jon and show!dany meet, hate!sex, maybe some funny, mutual enemies Jon and Dany
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-16
Updated: 2020-05-16
Packaged: 2021-03-03 04:14:03
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,329
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24208768
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Magali_Dragon/pseuds/Magali_Dragon
Summary: Queen Daenerys Targaryen absolutely cannot stand the brooding, snappish, rude, arrogant and downright annoying Lord Commander Jon Snow of the Nights Watch. She has half a mind to set her dragons on him each time she sees him. When one of his irrational demands finally sets her off, she flies to the Wall to confront him. Where she finds maybe it isnt really hate between them...Written for Tumblr iceandfiresource Jonerys Kinkfest 2020
Relationships: Jon Snow/Daenerys Targaryen
Comments: 131
Kudos: 743





	I hate the way I don't hate you

**Author's Note:**

> So I felt inspired one more time to do another fic for the Jonerys Kink!fest 2020. This is for the prompt Hate Sex. It's actually set in something of canon times. There is zero plot, so do not go looking for one or try to rationalize anything as making any sense. Bottom line: Dany is Queen, Jon is Lord Commander, they cannot stand each other. And Olenna knows everything. The end.
> 
> Enjoy!
> 
> Also, OMG, this is my 50th Jonerys fic. Whoa, this couple, honestly.

“Your Grace, try as hard as you can, it would not do well to ah… _upset_ the Night’s Watch.”

One of the pile of raven scrolls from the Wall tore through her fingers, becoming shreds she consigned to the flames, imagining the hissing puffs from the fire were the limbs of the Lord Commander of the Night’s Watch. She grit her teeth, vibrating in anger as another one of his _demands_ went with the others. “I do _not_ care about the Night’s Watch!” she shouted.

Daenerys Targaryen had taken the Seven Kingdoms from the Usurpers five years ago. She had fought with fire and blood, with her armies, her three full-grown dragons, and she alone was responsible for the thriving recovery efforts the kingdoms had made after over a decade and a half of mismanagement and abuse by the families that had try to see hers to its end. She was also very aware that in public, when she met with the Lords Paramount, the highborn ladies, the courts, the Wardens, and anyone who was not her most loyal and most private of advisers, that she had to keep a cool head.

Ironic, considering she was a dragon and they feared the dragon.

Except when she showed it, the whispers started. _Mad Queen, just like her father_ , they tittered. So many who knew her brother Rhaegar had died, no one left to challenge the whispers with _Yes but, she is more like Rhaegar than her father or her broken brother Viserys._

She was in the privacy of her solar, with her Hand; her closest friend, scribe, and translator; and her Lord Commander of the Queensguard. She was also in the company of her Mistress of Coin and her Master of Whisperers. Which she really didn’t understand why she had, but Tyrion Lannister knew things before they tended to happen. She just had to make sure that her _other_ Master of Whisperers kept him in check and told her the truth. Davos Seaworth was technically her Master of Ships, but he knew far more than even Tyrion did on a given day and his loyalty to her was absolute. Tyrion’s tended to be a bit vacillating given his mood of the day.

It was Tyrion who was trying to calm her down, to remind her of the importance of the Night’s Watch, but right now she could give a dragon’s fart about the Night’s Watch. _Protectors of the Realm of Men, Watchers on the Wall…_ She snorted. “It sounds more like one of those fanatical religions in the East, like the Lords of Light or whatever, except these ones worship cold and snow,” she spat, absently tearing another piece of parchment from her Lord Commander in her fingers.

She heard a chuff from the woman beside her, sitting regally in an upholstered chair. Lady Olenna Tyrell, Mistress of Coin, chuckled. She shrugged when they all glanced at her. “Oh, I thought it was amusing, because those crows up on that wall actually do worship cold and snow and cold and snow happens to have a name.” She nodded to one of the parchments turning to dust before it hit the top of the desk. “Jon Snow.”

Tyrion sighed, nodding in agreement. “Yes, Your Grace. The Night’s Watch has lost its luster in recent years, it has become something of a prison for those who do not wish to stay in prison, but Lord Commander Snow has worked to further its mission and turn it into something the men can be proud of. They worship him like a god, some say.”

Her Hand, Ser Barristan Selmy, nodded from the side of her desk. “Lord Commander Snow is a just and fair man, Your Grace. It would not do well to go after him in a way that would anger the Night’s Watch.” He paused, sighing. “Or the North.”

“Damn the North!” She glanced at Jorah, one of her Queensguard, who cocked his head slightly in amusement. She shrugged. “Sorry Ser Jorah, I know you are from the North, but honestly, for a region that gives me nothing in terms of resources it is incredibly taxing of my time and energy.”

“They are a hard and difficult people,” Barristan agreed.

She picked up another message from _Jon Snow._ She growled, like one of her dragons. A shadow crossed over the room, courtesy of Drogon, who flew overhead the Keep. The other two were off hunting. She sighed hard, closing her eyes. “Tell me again of all the things I have done for the Night’s Watch and why Jon Snow cannot seem to be agreeable to any of them.”

Before anyone could reply, Dany snapped, loud. “Because there is no reason!” In five years’ time she had encountered the man exactly that many, once a year, when he made the journey from the North to King’s Landing for a gathering, she held for all of the Wardens, the Lords Paramount, and other invited families. She did it to foster communication, goodwill, and to remind everyone exactly who they were dealing with. Queen Daenerys Targaryen was no Mad King, but she was also not Robert Baratheon or Cersei Lannister or Twyin Lannister or any of the other pretenders who thought they could rule her kingdom.

Each time she saw Jon Snow, her animosity towards him grew. As his did for her, she imagined. He was belligerent, demanding, arrogant, snide, and sometimes could be downright cruel. During the second visit, he had suggested she hold the children of some of her more unruly lords hostage to maintain their compliance, as though he had suggested they go for a horseback ride. She thought that was horrifying and told him so. He only shrugged.

There was the visit when they met halfway between Kings Landing and the Wall at Riverrun; “not so much halfway for me Your Grace,” he had made sure to remind her when she asked him how his journey had been. During that visit he’d almost knocked her into the Trident, she hadn’t fallen in only because his great white direwolf had snatched the skirt of her dress, pulling her back. _At least his wolf likes me_ , she had been pleased to discover, even if the wolf’s master was a complete bastard. _Literally._

On the fourth visit… _argh!_ Jon had gotten into an argument with Jorah, both of them almost coming to blows. She didn’t know what it was over, nor did she really care. She did care though when Jon had taken it upon himself to make a pact with Lady Yara Greyjoy of the Iron Islands for ships to send a group of Watchmen to Essos for reasons she did not understand and also negotiated a peace agreement so the Ironborn would cease raiding close to the Night’s Watch towers on the Shivering Sea and the Sunset Sea. _Without telling me_ , she had been furious to discover.

And _then_ there was the time where he had spilled red wine, an entire carafe of it, all over her snow-white gown, in front of everyone. She had wanted to scream, to hurl something at him, and explode into fire, like the dragon she was, especially when his only response was: “Oops, slipped. Apologies, Your Grace.” That time she had almost sent him straight to Drogon to be her dragon’s supper.

 _Uncouth, ill-mannered…_ All matter of adjectives rolled through her mind, and she tuned out Tyrion while he was speaking of how best they could deal with the latest request from the Wall. They wanted more food; the North could only give them so much but as always _winter is coming_ they said and couldn’t give them their usual allotment. So then he’d gone to the Iron Bank to secure a loan. The Iron Bank had cashed in on the loan, but to the Crown, which she paid for to keep them away from trying to seize something of her kingdom to satisfy their need for repayment.

And now he wanted more. More food, more men, more resources, more _everything._

The Night’s Watch was supposed to be independent and yet Lord Commander Snow caused her more grief than anyone. Second only to his sister, Wardeness of the North Sansa Stark. Dany pinched her nose. She was about to suggest that they table the discussion; she had a headache forming, one in the part of her head that she always got when it came to the Night’s Watch, she had taken to calling them _Snows_ , because they were _always_ related to _him._

Except she didn’t have time, because the door opened, a Maester stepping in and handing a scroll to Barristan, who glanced at it and sighed. “What?” she snapped.

Barristan didn’t have time to open it, because she’d snatched it from his hand. The single black wax seal, empty of sigil, was all she needed. “Prepare yourselves gentlemen,” Olenna muttered, cocking her head and smiling in her direction, as though waiting for a show to begin.

Dany pulled her shoulders back; she was a _queen._ She could not afford to lose control. Not with her still tenuous hold on power, her attempt to prove herself to the people…one man wouldn’t…

Her eyes widened at what he’d written. The writing she had come to associate with him. Slanted, small, and yet in neat lines. It infuriated her that he was well-read. It would be so much easier if he were stupid, but he wasn’t. She read what he’d sent again. And again. And once again.

It was not a request. It was not a plea. It was not even a simple ask. It was a _demand._ _An order._

“He dares to order me?” she murmured, dropping the paper to the desk. She blinked hard, walking slowly to one of the open arches, gazing over Blackwater Bay. It was a lovely day, warm breeze coming off the sea. Sun shining, her dragons diving into the waves, entertaining and terrifying the people as they did. Although, she no longer could see the pretty sight. Instead she saw red.

Red flames. A black crow on fire. She would do it. She was going to do it.

She roared. “I’ll kill him!”

“Your Grace!” Tyrion exclaimed, at the same time Olenna started laughing.

Missandei, her best friend, was alarmed, as was Grey Worm, her Unsullied commander and Commander of her Queensguard. Barristan snatched the paper instantly, reading it and wincing visibly. “Your Grace,” he began. “You know Lord Commander Snow is not one for…ah…words…”

“He’s blunt,” Tyrion suggested.

Olenna snorted. “He’s a selfish prick. What’s he want from you?”

“One of my dragons!” she screamed. ”My children! That arrogant smelly wet wolf pelt wants my children!” That was it. She’d _had_ it. She was going to murder him. They could find another Lord Commander. She didn’t even care that the Maester of the Night’s Watch was her elderly Uncle Aemon. She’d met him once; they had brought him south to White Harbor to see a Maester there for medical treatment and she’d rushed up at once to see to his care. Aemon had tried to tell her at the time that Jon Snow was a good man, but she didn’t believe him, as wise as he was. Aemon was over a hundred and four years old. Surely, he’d been addled when he told her his good thoughts of Jon Snow.

Barristan passed the missive to Tyrion. “Your Grace, I think perhaps he just…”

“No! That’s it! I’m going North!”

Her mind was made up. She wasn’t going to change it. Tyrion shook his head. “Your Grace, I know Jon Snow, he’s a good man, he’s smart…I think he can be reasoned with.”

“You thought your sister could be reasoned with not once but _twice_ and I almost lost the war to her!” she raved, feeling like a mad woman. Fire burned around her, and she stomped back and forth in front of her desk, knowing that her advisers were there for a reason. They were supposed to keep her darker impulses in check. She would not be a good queen without them.

Right now though she didn’t have any need of them. Jon Snow had done it. He’d asked for the wrong thing, he’d done it in the wrong way, and she was sick of him. She would deal with him once and for all. She glared at Barristan and Tyrion, arms crossing over her chest. “I don’t want to hear it; I don’t want to hear any of it. For five years we have reasoned with him, dealt with his demands, given him just about everything he has ever requested, and not once has he done a damn thing for me.”

This time it was Olenna who piped up, casually reminding her of what she must have thought was important. “The Night’s Watch does not get involved or take sides.”

“I don’t care about that, what I mean is that not once has he even bothered to _thank_ me.” It wasn’t like she demanded thanks for everything she did; she did not. She was a queen, a ruler, and it was her duty. It was simply that Jon Snow had caused her more grief than any of the others. The rest of the kingdoms wanted to know why the rapists, the murderers, and the bastards of the Night’s Watch were getting more support, time, and attention from the crown than them.

It was like Jon Snow kept trying to one-up his requests. She never should have given in to him when he first came to her, a message sent from Essos via the Maester-in-Training, a Samwell Tarly. He was informing her that her great-uncle was very ill, had been asking about her, and that he hoped she would be able to see him before he passed. It was quite nice actually. It had been her first introduction to this curious Night’s Watch that did not bow to any kings.

Now she wished she’d never heard of his stupid name.

_Snow._

It conjured something foreign to her, growing up in the heat of Essos. Something she ahd merely read about or heard secondhand from Jorah, Barristan and Tyrion. She had never seen snow, until her first trip to the North, in her first year as queen. It was so lovely!

Then she met Snow.

He might have been lovely to look at, but he was a boor and she no longer associated the word with anything other than him. And how she hated him.

She growled, done with their talk. This was it, Jon Snow could not simply send a raven demanding the use of her three dragons for some sort of silly _war_ he had been insisting was upon them. She would not let him just abuse her like this. Take all her generosity and through it in her face. Not after all he’d done to embarrass her, use her, trick her…

Missandei was the only one who followed at her heels, the only one allowed into her private bedchambers. She stalked inside, tearing at the sleeveless gown she wore and fumbling with the stays. “Your Grace, what can I do to help you?” her friend asked.

“Help me with this and then we will need to find my warmest possible clothes. Furs, gloves, boots, and trousers. Also I will need the kitchens to prepare a sack of food, for at least two nights.” Drogon could probably make the trip in one go, but she didn’t want to hurry him. He would need to feed at least once on their trip. She would need to as well. It was a long enough journey to Winterfell; she had never been farther than that with Drogon and from what she knew it was at least a week’s ride from Winterfell to Castle Black, where Jon Snow ruled.

She said _ruled_ because that’s what he was, effectively. Jon Snow was not a Lord Commander of _shit._ He was behaving like a fucking _king._ She would not have it. Jon Snow needed to be put in his place.

Dany stood in only her smallclothes, while Missandei hurried towards her with some of the garments they’d had made for her last trip North. They would have to suffice. “Ser Barristan is requesting an audience with you before you depart,” Missandei said, struggling with one of the heavy coats.

“He will have to wait. I do not need their advice.”

“What are you going to do?”

“I’m going to tell Jon Snow exactly where he can put his requests.”

“And if he defies you?”

Dany sniffed, glancing out the window at Drogon who had sensed her ire, who knew they would be leaving soon, his screams echoing over the Red Keep as he spiraled around, waiting for her to summon him. She tilted her head back, shaking her arms into the woolen shift Missandei lifted for her. “I’ll burn him alive, that’s what.”

~/~/~/~

“Lord Commander!”

Jon jolted upright from his chair, scrubbing a hand hard over his face. He blinked, eyes gritty from what he sincerely hoped was a long enough nap to give him some energy to finish out his tasks. He glanced at the door, shouting: “Enter!”

His steward, young and pretty Satin, burst forth, chest heaving, like he had run all the way from Winterfell. He gulped air, pointing, gasping. “Dra…dragon!”

 _Dragon_!?

Whatever sleep might still have clouded his mind vanished. Jon grabbed for his cloak, the heavy black mantle weighing harder on him in some ways than the actual task of being Lord Commander, and flung it over his shoulders, tying down the straps and grabbing for Longclaw. He belted the sword around his waist as he hurried from his study, Ghost trotting after him. He glanced sideways at Ghost, who only yawned; his wolf was not concerned at all about whatever had Satin and the rest of the keep in an uproar. Men and boys ran every which way, all of them crying out, pointing, and staring up at the dark sky. It was near midnight, he gathered, judging from the position of the moon in the blackness. He tossed his hair from his eyes; his fingers numb as he fumbled with the belt. “My gloves,” he said to Satin, who handed them quickly. He was constantly surprised at how fast Satin could remember things.

He shoved his hands into the black leather and fur, but they did little to warm. It was getting closer to winter, the chill heavier with every night. The Wall behind him emanated frost, coating them all with a light layer of snow each time they left the confines of the castle’s walls. He gazed up, following the excited cries of the men and some of the Free Folk. Tormund wandered over, clapping a hand on his shoulder so hard he almost fell forward into the snow. “Well, well Little Crow, looks like your calls were answered.”

“I asked for all three, not one,” he grumbled, but his heart leaped up in his throat at the sight. He tried not to smile; it was more of a smirk anyway. The black dragon shrieked, spiraling lower and lower; she was making a show of it. It was fine for him, the men had very little to entertain themselves. Only a handful had seen the dragons when they accompanied him South.

It was like she’d answered his prayers, bringing him a dragon and distracting the men from the dark and dismal days ahead. She had no idea too, he thought with another smirk.

Tormund growled, lecherous, his blue eyes twinkling and bushy red eyebrows lifting. “What’s got that smile on your face Crow?”

“Nothing.”

“Man’s smile grows like that when something else starts to grow too.” Tormund reached down, trying to grab at his groin, but Jon dodged out of the way, glaring at him. Tormund roared, clapping his hands. “I knew it! You’ve got a hard on for the Dragon Queen!”

“Shut the fuck up or I’ll slice yours off.”

“Will need a bigger sword than the one you’ve got to do that.”

He rolled his eyes; he couldn’t deal with Tormund now. Sometimes he wondered why he tolerated him to begin with. He stepped through the crowd, the gates to Castle Black still shut. He barked loudly, pushing by. “Well? What do you men want, an invitation? Open the gates! It’s the bloody Queen of the Seven Kingdoms!”

They all tittered like maids and girls, muttering about the Queen, the black dragon, and what she was doing there. Some wondered how he knew the Queen had come. They weren’t the smartest, he sighed. Only one of the dragons had a rider. That dragon had descended, dropping with landing heavy enough to shake the foundations of the castle. He knew she’d come; his heart beat faster in his chest and he ignored the blood rushing through his body to parts he really was glad remained covered by his black leathers and heavy furs. Tormund hadn’t been _entirely_ wrong and that annoyed him somewhat more than the fact his men had all abandoned their posts.

It was not his intention for her to come directly; he needed time to prepare. Some of the men hadn’t seen a woman in years. Not all of them journeyed to Mole’s Town. He needed to ensure her protection. He stared at the closed gates, his blood now rushing through his ears like a winter wind, and watched them swing open, revealing the black beast on the other side.

Smoke curled from his nostrils and his eyes flashed red in the light from the hundreds of torches lit around the walls and the keep. Drogon roared, low, rumbling, and the fire burned hot in his throat, visible to those closest. “Get back!” he shouted to them all, ensuring that he was the one in the front. Satin trembled beside him, wide-eyed, intrigued. He smiled briefly. “You’ve seen them before.” Satin had been the one to come with him all the times to Kings Landing.

“It’s still a dragon,” he murmured, excited.

He had to admit that yes, it was still exciting, to see the great beasts the Queen referred to as her ‘children.’ He watched the Queen, her tiny form descending from her mount, a beacon of light in the dark. Silver hair, white coat, and pearly skin, she looked like an ice queen rather than one molded from fire. All the men around him fell to their knees, as she approached, hands held calmly in front of her.

All but him.

He bowed his head, but not his knee. “Your Grace.”

“Lord Commander Snow,” she purred; her violet eyes were always as cold as jewels when she gazed at him. She reached her hand for his and he offered it. She gripped tight; her little fist cracked at his fingers and he only smiled, vague. He could hardly feel her; more of an annoyance than anything really. She cocked her head, pink tongue darting out to dap at her upper lip. Jon felt something twitch inside of him, setting his teeth against it. _You hate her, remember?_ , he reminded himself. “I received your ravens,” she said. She growled. “Foolish demands, I should say.”

He kept his face impassive. “Your Grace, it is quite cold out this evening, my men have been distracted long enough.” He made a show of looking around. “Where is your guard?” He knew she didn’t have one; she’d flown off on her own. He’d only sent the raven two days before. He hissed at her, leaning in so only she could hear. “Are you serious, Your Grace? This is insanity, even for you.”

Violet flashed again, like quick sparks of fire. “You expect me to ignore your missives? I need to speak to you… _urgently._ ”

He had to ensure her safety above all else. _This woman will be the death of me._ He gripped her around her arm, pretending like he was leading her into the keep, when in actuality he was dragging her. He wasn’t sure her boots hit the ground, maybe once or twice as he shouted for everyone to get back to their posts.

Tormund gave him a look he did not care to try to interpret and then mimicked something foul with the thrust of his hips. Dany looked over his shoulder, waving. “Is that the Free Folk leader? Tormund? He’s quite amusing. I should like to speak with him.”

“I do not think so Your Grace.”

“You do not presume to tell me what to do! Unhand me!”

“You came here,” he said, his jaw starting to ache from keeping it set so tight and his teeth grinding. He pushed open a door into the Lord Commander tower, hauling her up the stairs to his chambers. They were the nicest ones available in the keep, such as it was, and she would have to stay there. He could also ensure her safety as well. “Without even a raven, without a guard, without _any_ regard for your safety!”

“Like you care,” she spat.

“I do care! I don’t want the bloody queen dead because some Night’s Watch brother who hasn’t, pardon my language, fucked in a decade, decides he wants you!” Jon felt flush, sweat pooling at the back of his neck, even though there was still a cold damp chill in the rooms. He waited for Ghost to enter before slamming the door shut and bolting it. Ghost moved off to the hearth, where she was standing, and offered his heads for pets.

He closed his eyes. _You bloody traitor._ The queen made a sound, a _giggle_ , the audacity of her, and continued to pet the wolf. “He’s such a sweetheart, why is he with you of all people?” She pursed her lips, kissing Ghost’s face. “You are such a darling, your master is so unkind. So rude.”

_Rude?_

Jon stared at her, while he ripped at the braces of his cloak, pulling off the heavy garment. The long white and gray fur coat she wore looked thin; he couldn’t believe she’d managed to get that far in the sky, with the wind and snow, wearing only that and not look at all like she was cold. Silver hair normally in heavily intricate braided designs now bound only in a relatively simple braid that fell to the small of her back. She had taken off her gloves, her slim fingers carding through Ghost’s fur.

He found her horribly irritating.

And terribly attractive.

He cursed his traitorous wolf and his traitorous body. Traitorous friends while he was at it, since Tormund no doubt was telling everyone that the Queen was now locked away in his rooms. He could not have this. He could not have her here. She made his life quite literally, one of the seven hells. An icy cold hell, but a hell nevertheless. “You should not have come without telling me first,” he exclaimed, unable to bottle it in. He was furious with her. He jabbed his finger to the door. “There are hundreds of men out there who would be willing to kill you! Some even who fought for Robert Baratheon against your father!”

“And some who did fight _for_ my father.”

“It does not matter!”

“Well what would you have had me do? _Wait_?” She sneered. She reached to unbutton her coat, speaking while her fingers moved quickly along the clasps. Jon found that at the same time he was taking off Longclaw and finding his gorget and boiled leather quite confining. “Your ravens were growing more and more insubordinate. You do not speak to your Queen that way.”

“The Night’s Watch does not take sides.”

“The Night’s Watch still answers to the ruler of this realm!”

“You should have told me you were coming!”

“You should watch your tone!”

“You are bloody infuriating!”

“You are far too demanding!”

“All I am doing is my _duty_!”

“Your _duty_ is to protect this realm and that includes _me_!”

“What do you think I am trying to do! You make it so bloody difficult!”

“I make it difficult! You’re the one who just sent me a dozen ravens and are demanding my _children_ to help you!”

“Fucking mad!”

“Fucking bastard!”

Before Jon knew it, they were suddenly at each other; they’d somehow been walking closer and closer during their argument, words growing louder and louder, until they were screaming straight into each other’s faces. He didn’t realize that she had a little scar in between her eyebrows and when she pinched them to a point like right now, it looked like a lightning bolt. Or that there was a ring of gold around her pupil; not that he could see much of it, they had blown completely black.

 _Fuck me, I am going to the flames_.

Jon didn’t think, he just grabbed hold of her around her narrow waist, her breasts rising and falling with every shout, every deep gulping breath, and dragged her to him, the feel of her hot mouth on his, her tongue suddenly shoved between his lips and her fingernails digging into the back of his scalp, all of it together sending him spinning into dark nothingness.

~/~/~/~

Jon Snow was kissing her.

She was kissing Jon Snow.

Well, not so much kissing as attacking each other. His lips were divine, so soft for someone who spent most of his days outdoors in harsh climes. She could barely think, her tongue suddenly captured by his, their breathing heated and someone moaning—maybe it was her, she wasn’t sure—while someone else groaned. Gods it could have been them both, and Dany didn’t believe in any gods.

She had wanted to hit him when she got off Drogon and saw him standing there, while the rest of the Night’s Watch bowed. She wanted to push him into the snow and start beating her fists at his stupid face. Every single time she saw it, somehow Jon Snow grew comelier and comelier. Dark curls that licked at his ears and sometimes was long enough to hang over his shoulders; another time he had it pulled from his face half-up and half-down. It came to a peak in the center of his forehead, she longed to touch it. To see if it was as soft as it looked. His hair framed a face that was angular, long, and jaw covered with a close-cropped dark beard. Scars crossed both of his eyes, one curved over the right and another sliced straight through his left. It only served to make him more handsome, rather than detract from his looks. The scars drew attention to his eyes.

Eyes that were haunting, piercing even. A peculiar shade of gray; she’d thought at first, they were brown, maybe even black, but no, they were gray. Like iron or steel. They certainly looked like steel, when he cut them across to her, in a dark glare.

There was a shortage of handsome men in the Seven Kingdoms. She should know; they were always throwing themselves at her for her hand, to help her produce the next heir. They all wanted to be the King Consort, for she would not allow anyone to rule in their own right but her or her heir. No one in the Seven Kingdoms had the looks of Jon Snow. He was quite possibly, to her, one of the most irritatingly good looking men she’d ever met.

Jon Snow showed up the first time she’d summoned him, and she hadn’t realized he was unavailable to her. She might have even flirted with him, until Tyrion told her he was the Lord Commander of the Night’s Watch. He’d told her later that they could not marry, it was part of their vows. Lifelong vows, he’d also reminded her. Olenna had commented that it was a shame the Seven Kingdoms had lost the seed of Jon Snow—“Think of all those lovely little dark-haired babes we could have.” Olenna had also commented to her, to the mortification of Barristan and Tyrion that Jon Snow “looks like he has a lovely cock, wouldn’t know though, it is all covered in those black furs, shame.”

Olenna always seemed to say exactly what Dany was thinking at the time. Until she realized Jon Snow was an annoying, demanding, uncouth, selfish bastard. It was good that he couldn’t marry, any woman married to him would fling themselves off the highest tower at the prospect of having to deal with him. The realm didn’t need babes like his.

But gods she was so wrong.

Jon Snow kissed like a man possessed; she wasn’t sure if he’d ever had a lover, she had tried to get it out of him once, the third time they’d met. Commenting their vows were against marriage, but not entirely celibacy. Jon Snow had merely told her that her sleeve was on fire; she’d dipped it into a candle near her elbow while speaking to him. Embarrassing more than anything else for her, not him. As much as she did want to embarrass him.

Although he kissed like he definitely knew what he was doing. His hands did too. They blazed over her skin, pulling at her undertunic; her shift was long gone, in a pile on the floor with her coat. She was fumbling with the ties of his tunic; he’d dropped his heavy black leather gambeson and jerkin while they’d been shouting. He bit at her lips, her tongue, and she did the same. Then his mouth was hot over her jaw, her neck, and nipping at her collarbone, suckling and dragging his tongue over his marks.

He was a wolf, she vaguely thought, fingers trembling with the ties. He walked—no, he _flung_ — her backwards against a wall, her skin burning hot with need, her belly scraping against the rough wool and leather of his tunic and trousers. “Please,” she begged, unsure what for exactly.

Whatever it was, he gave it to her, mouth trailing over her and his fingers digging underneath her tunic. It flew somewhere to the side and she was bare before him save her trousers, his lips latching around one of her breasts while one hand fondled the other. His other hand was not idle; he had it dipped under her trousers and cupped around the swell of her ass. She ground herself against him, moaning at the rough feel of his hardness against her center, which was already damp.

 _More, more, more_ , she begged, furiously tearing at the ties of his trousers; she wanted him naked. She wanted to see all of him. Hands could not stop moving, his skin cool like ice under her heated palms. He broke away from her long enough for her to throw his tunic aside and then they were falling down; hitting the hard floor, cold and rough beneath her.

Legs drawing up, she kicked off her trousers as he yanked at her boots. “Fuck me,” she ordered him, locking gaze with him long enough to take in his heaving chest, his well-muscled and defined torso shining with perspiration from their activities. She dragged him down before he could protest, mouth over his again, biting hard on his bottom lip, drawing a groan from him.

Fire curdled in her belly, which rubbed against his stomach, her hips arching to his, empty body desperate to be filled. Blood roared through her ears, her eyes closed, and hands touching every bit of him she could, dipping into his trousers and through his smallclothes to wrap around him. She groaned; he was so hot, so soft like velvet, but hard as steel. He bucked into her hand, her thumb dragging over the tip of him, pulling at his shaft, teasing and tugging, before he grabbed hold of her knees, hauling her legs up and throwing them over his shoulders. She groaned, her nails digging into his upper arms, curving half-moons into his unmarked skin.

Before she knew it, he was inside of her; she cried out at the sudden invasion of her body, hips undulating to his. It had been years since she’d been with a man and she was tight. Except this felt so good, the pinch of pain, the harsh scrape of him inside her. She was sopping wet, practically dripping. He kissed her again, rising up over her, hands braced on either side of her head.

His entire body taut, crowding over her, and pressing her deeper into the roughhewn floor under her, he fucked her. Every drive of his cock into her seemed to push her higher and higher on the floor, until she threw a hand back to touch the wall, palm pressing against the stone for support, while her other dug into his hair, those luscious black curls wrapping around her fingers, and she pulled hard on them, encouraging him to go faster, and harder.

“Fuck me,” she begged, over and over, moaning his name, Valyrian tumbling from her lips as she went higher and higher, his mouth over hers again, their harsh exhales mingling. He groaned with her, mumbling her name.

“ _Dany, Dany, Dany_ ,” he panted, tongue laving at her skin, falling forward on one of his forearms while he snaked his hand between them, his fingers roughly tapping at her nub, sending further shocks of pleasure through her overstimulated body.

His hips set a punishing pace she could barely match; the obscene sounds of their coupling filled the room, mingling with their desperate breaths, groans, and grunts. She felt the tingling begin, the warmth bubbling up inside of her, and clenched around him, her cunt locking him in and her knees almost hitting her in the face as he bent her almost clear in half, heels grinding into his shoulders. “Harder,” she begged. It felt so fucking _good._

He felt perfect inside of her, she briefly thought; he was so warm, filled her so well, and his mouth latched to hers once more. She pushed her hands down to his face, holding him against her as she felt her body tighten; for a brief moment, their gazes met. His eyes were gray, such a beautiful gray, like storm clouds, she thought. She’d always liked them. And then suddenly every one of her muscles locked as the fire exploded out, seizing her, drowning her. A strangled sound came from somewhere deep. She couldn’t see anymore; everything had gone dark and red and flashing. He was still touching her, one hand still between them, feathering over her nub, touching her and dragging her juices around to draw forth another wave of pleasure, taking her again.

And then she tightened around him again, his body going still, just briefly, a long, low groan leaving his lips. She kept pushing against him and he thrusted weakly through his climax, giving her everything, spilling deep inside of her. His seed was warm, heating her from the inside out, and she dropped her legs from over his shoulders, locking them around his hips, pulling him tighter against her.

They stilled, coming down from their highs, foreheads touching, and mouths still hovering over each other. He was heavy against her, pressing deep inside, cock still hard. She didn’t want him to move; it was comforting. Except he had to; he had to move, because it was cold and she was on the floor, her head almost smacking into the wall. He moved, to get up, saying nothing to her as he pulled out of her and she felt his seed spill out onto her thighs. He refused to acknowledge her, as he adjusted his trousers and smallclothes.

It occurred to her that he hadn’t even taken them off. They had been so desperate. _Fuck Dany, what did you do?_ She turned from him, climbing up to her feet and glanced around. They were in his room, with a simple bed in the corner and a couple trucks against the wall. She raked her hands through her hair, her braid knotted and tangled. “Here,” he mumbled, handing her something.

It was her coat. Drogon still had the trunk she’d strapped to him with the clothing she’d brought with her. She said nothing, slipping it on. She turned to glance at him, but he wasn’t looking at her. “Jon,” she began.

“Your Grace,” he said, cutting her off. He finally turned and their eyes met. He shook his head, imperceptible. He arched his brows, quiet. “I will give you some time to…clean up.” He stepped to the door and paused, before turning, back stiff and voice cool: “What happened cannot happen again.”

 _No, no it couldn’t._ He was the Lord Commander of the Night’s Watch. She was the Queen of the Seven Kingdoms.

Dany glanced back at him, as he went to the door, whistling for his wolf, who hopped up from the hearth and darted over to him. “Lock this behind me,” he ordered. She nodded again, but she didn’t move from her position, standing numb. She was delightfully sore, her skin warm still, and her breasts red from his beard abrading them. She touched her throat, already feeling a slight indentation from his teeth. Marked like a wolf taking its prey, she thought with a tiny smile.

It didn’t take long for her to redress as best she could, to leave the tower, and he accompanied her to get her trunk from Drogon. Drogon flew off, to hunt and rest, and she went back with the Lord Commander to the tower. She waited for him to set the trunk down, mutter something about how he would have Satin bring her a bath and some food, and he would be in the rooms next door, he would leave Ghost for her protection.

“Jon,” she called over her shoulder, as he went to the door.

He stilled; she had never referred to him by his real name. His hand was on the handle of the door, to depart, but she was not letting him go that quick. He glanced over his shoulder, and she smirked. She turned completely, facing him. He frowned. “Your Grace?”

“I do not recall dismissing you.”

He turned, still frowning. “I do not recall asking permission,” he replied cooly.

“That is too bad.” She approached him, taking slow, deliberate steps. Once she got to him, she touched at the bruise forming on his neck, where she felt his pulse beating hard against her fingertip. She gripped at one of the leather straps of his cloak, dragging him towards her, growling. “Because you do not have it.”

“This is a terrible idea Your Grace.”

“I command you to refer to me as Dany.”

He scowled. “We can’t do this, you’re the Queen and I’m…”

“Since when does me being queen stop you from doing or saying anything,” she murmured, yanking him towards her, nibbling his bottom lip. She sighed. “Will it help if I tell you that you do not get to demand anything from me? For your little _war_ or whatever you told me.”

“It it’s a little war! It’s serious, there’s an army of…”

Whatever he wanted to say could wait, at least another night. “Tell me tomorrow,” she said, pushing the cloak from his shoulders. He hoisted her up under her thighs, her legs wrapping around his waist. She dropped her head to his, snapping at him again. “I command my Lord Commander to fuck me again. Until I tell him to stop.”

He dropped her onto his bed, leaning over her, tongue darting to drag at her chin, licking up to her lips as she held onto his biceps, nails digging in for purchase. He thrust against her, and she could feel how hard he was again through the layers of their clothing. “You’re annoying,” he hissed.

“You’re demanding.”

“I wanted to fuck you when I first saw you," he growled into her ear, biting down on the lobe. Something sparked inside of her, an intense longing. He murmured, less of a growl this time. "I really hated you."

She grinned, snapping at him, a dragon about to devour its meal. “You did? Funny that, I think I did too.”

“And I poured wine on you because you leaned over and I didn’t want you to feel how hard I was for you,” he continued, sighing against her skin, fingers separating her coat again, dipping to pull at her hips. “And it was the only thing I could think of.”

“I almost had your head.”

He silenced her with his next words. “And now I’m going to have you.”

Dany only moaned, sighing happily as he did just that. Several more times that night. The next morning there were important issues to discuss, issues that required them to go above the Wall, beyond it, so she could witness exactly what he spoke of in his ravens, matters of dead men walking and the like.

She left the keep the following morning, only Satin aware of how close she and Jon had been the previous night, but she knew he would not say a word. All he did was smile knowingly at her and make a comment on how he could help her with her braids if she wanted. He was quite adept at them; he said the whores where he grew up taught him how to do hair. She might have to steal him away, she thought, staring at herself in the looking glass. He did quite well.

They left and despite the occasional whisper, Jon’s cold looks to the men kept them silent. Although Tormund simply slapped him on the back, made some comment about baby seals, and gave her a hearty wink. She frowned, walking to the lift that would take them to the top of the Wall. “What was that supposed to mean?”

“You do not want to know.”

“You do that kiss thing on her yet?” Tormund shouted, as the lift began to ascend.

Dany narrowed her eyes, scowling at Jon, whose cheeks were pink and not from cold. “Kiss thing?”

“I’ll show you later. You didn’t give me time last night.”

She scowled. "So last night was not your first time?"

He was more amused than offended. He smiled again. "No, it wasn't. It wasn't yours either, so no judging."

"I wasn't judging!" She was probably judging. There was no way it had been his first time, not the way he moved with her and treated her. She scowled again. "I want to know that kiss thing Tormund is talking about. I'll hold you to it."

And she did.

And oh my, was all she could think, when he’d finished. “Do that again,” she ordered.

“You do not command me.”

“Do it again or I’ll burn you alive.”

Jon only grumbled halfheartedly before he did what she commanded, with a mumbled "I hate you." She laughed, before she groaned, mumbling how she hated him too.

~/~/~/~

“It seems the Queen and the Lord Commander have entered into some sort of détente,” Tyrion said, at the Small Council meeting, glancing over at Barristan, who was nodding in agreement, setting aside a few raven messages. “I cannot say I understand what exactly this War of the Dead means, but at least we seem to have put the Night’s Watch at the bottom of the realm’s problems for the moment.”

Olenna chuckled, swirling her wine around in her goblet. “Oh you think Jon Snow is no longer one of our problems, Lord Tyrion?”

Barristan glanced up, nodding. “I seem to agree, why Lady Olenna? Is there something you care to share?”

She smacked her lips, wiggling her brows at them both. “You both are stupid men.” She snorted, sitting back in her chair, gazing out of the chamber towards the one adjacent, where the Queen was standing with her Lord Commander, both of them with heads bent. It had been a couple months since the Queen had returned from the North and the Lord Commander had only recently arrived for some sort of a visit with her. Something that could not be said via messages and required the long arduous journey from the North.

The others around might be stupid and ignorant, but she certainly wasn’t. Ser Davos was the only other one who seemed to have an inkling of understanding. “Lord Tyrion can a sovereign ruler annul the vows of the Night’s Watch?” he wondered.

Barristan nodded, even though the question was meant for Tyrion. “Yes, I was dismissed from the Kingsguard despite taking vows for life. The same can be said for the Night’s Watch, but it isn’t done.” He narrowed his eyes at them both, Tyrion also quizzical. “Why?”

Davos and Olenna exchanged a look; she tipped her goblet to him in commiseration. Smart man, that Davos, she thought. “Because, you daft morons,” she said, smirking. “If you thought there was actually anything between the Queen and the Lord Commander that remotely constituted actual animosity, anger, or what have you, you are dumber than I ever thought.” She sighed. “They just needed a good fuck.”

“Lady Olenna!” Barristan exclaimed, and Tyrion just dropped his head into his hands.

Olenna shrugged, taking another look at the Queen and Lord Commander, who were starting to argue, their voices rising. She waved her hand. “You all can go, I think the Queen will be indisposed for a time.”

Sure enough, out of the corner of her eye, she saw the dark Lord Commander growl at the silver little queen, who said something in Valyrian at him, and then they turned, stalking off, voices dying in the corridor and a door slamming somewhere else. She chuckled, going to pour herself some more wine.

And they thought Tyrion knew everything.

 _Ha_ , she laughed, giving it a month before they announced an engagement.

**fin.**


End file.
